The kitchen ran on fear, precision, and Ryomen Sukuna’s mood.

Steel rang against steel as knives flew across the prep table in a blur, the air thick with heat and spice and the kind of tension that made new hires quit within a week. Sukuna stood at the center of it all, apron already stained, sleeves rolled up to reveal scarred forearms, eyes sharp with contempt as he tasted a sauce and clicked his tongue in irritation.

“Too sweet,” he snapped. “Do it again. And if I have to tell you why, you’re fired.”

“Yes, Chef—!” someone stammered.

Behind his back, when they thought he couldn’t hear, the crew whispered Ratatouille. Half as a joke. Half because he truly did run the place like a tyrant genius possessed by something unholy. He heard it every time. He let it live. Fear worked better when people thought they were brave.

Yet the kitchen survived because of him. Thrived, even. No one starved. No one went unpaid. And no one touched the staff without consequences—though Sukuna made sure those consequences never traced back to him.

The doors to the dining room swung open.

She stepped through.

His attention shifted instantly, instinctively—annoyingly.

The waitress moved between tables with practiced ease, balancing plates like it was second nature, smile polite but real, eyes warm in a way that didn’t belong in a place like this. She laughed softly at a guest’s comment, thanked another, tied her hair back as she passed the kitchen window.

Sukuna scowled.

Of all the people.

His empire. His restaurant. One of the most revered names in Japan—and this was the thing that disrupted his focus? A waitress who didn’t look at him like he was a god or a devil, who didn’t flinch when he barked orders, who met his gaze like she wasn’t afraid at all?

Pathetic.

He slammed the tasting spoon down, voice slicing through the room. “You—” he called, eyes locking on her as she passed again. “Table seven. They’re waiting.”

Her head turned. Calm. Unimpressed. “They’ve been served, Chef.”

A few cooks froze. Someone dropped a pan.

Sukuna’s lips curled—not into anger.

Into interest.

“…Tch,” he muttered, turning back to the stove. “Get back to work.”

But even as the kitchen roared back to life, his eyes followed her reflection in the steel, jaw tight.

Love was a weakness.

And Ryomen Sukuna didn’t have weaknesses.

Right?